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He slid down the wall and sat on the hallway floor of my dorm. I remember thinking he had impossibly long legs and there was no way he was comfortable sitting like that. He looked down the hall, first to his left, then his right before pulling a can of beer out of his sweatshirt pocket. He looked at me for a moment as he took his first swig, then turned to talk to his friend, clearly bored of the situation and ready to go.

At the time, it didn’t matter to me. After all, it wasn’t him I was interested in. It was his friend. I sat at my computer and flirted, laughing and touching the arm of the boy while Long Legs quietly drank his beer, probably wishing he was anywhere else but dragged along to a freshman’s dorm.

Later that night I sat cross-legged on my friend’s bed and said that Long Legs was pretty cute. I would try and set them up.


Four months later the boy was history and I found myself at a long and boring concert on a cold and rainy day in the company of Long Legs – or Mike. (And later, Michael.) Later that night he IMd me, we pulled our first all-night conversation and things were never the same.


We said “I love you” in June. Or July. I can’t remember the date, but I remember the moment like it was yesterday. I stared into his eyes and knew if I didn’t say something soon it would burst out of me and spatter against the walls of my bedroom. I inhaled, ready to speak the words when he stopped me.

“Don’t say it…”

Crestfallen, I turned away, too hurt to look at him but too proud to let him see me cry.

“Don’t say it,” he said turning my face back towards him, “because I want to say it first.”


The end of the year was hard. Two parents — his father, my mother — were diagnosed with cancer. I helped him pick up the pieces of himself after he learned the news. He put me back together after learning mine.


It rained on our first anniversary. The fickle weather in New England taunted our love with wind and water. We huddled in his truck parked in front of the ocean. I gave him a scrap book I had made.

Sitting in the dark, overlooking a spot that would one day change our lives forever, a whisper of a future was spoken over the roar of the ocean.


Wet, curly hair. Big cup of caffeinated black tea. Thirty minutes later than I usually get to work. (Thank goodness for flex time.)

We were out late last night. Every so often we head over to out friends’ house — a couple from college who now have two adorable children under the age of three. I love going over there. Amidst the chaos, the toys, the shrieks and the dirty diapers, there’s a sense of family and happiness. There’s chubby baby cheeks to kiss and baby smell to sniff from the top of his head. There’s a little monkey full of life, so excited to show me his new truck and equally happy to play with a balloon. There’s also the snacking, because when he sits on your lap and offers “this one for you,” while placing a piece of apple in your mouth, you can’t help but smile and open up.

As much as I adore the children (see yesterday’s post), it’s after they go to bed that I most enjoy. The four of us retreated to our separate domains–the men outside to start the fire, the women to look at the proofs for my invitations and talk about life, laundry and why the dishes never get done.

And when we joined the boys, fleeces zipped up to our noses, glasses of wine in hand, it just felt right. I stared into the orange glow of the flame and watched the ash fireflies dance in the air, listening to the musings of college memories and where we are today. With  my fiance to my right and my friends to my left I felt like I could stay there all night. But as the clock crept towards midnight and the fire became a pile of radiating ambers, our carriage turned back into a pumpkin and it was time to go home.

I slept like a log. The combination of fresh air, fire and wine knocking me into a solid dreamless sleep. I woke to the reality of another day. A day of work, of responsibility. A day where the oil bill and the mortgage have to be paid and editors need to be contacted and money needs to be earned.

I climbed in the shower and let the water run over my head.

The smell of cedar smoke mixed with the steam and I smiled.

I just made an appointment with a new gynecologist. For the last few years I’ve been bouncing around to whichever nurse practitioner could take me because I was healthy and basically only needed my annual to reaffirm my health and refill my prescription.

But at 25, there was a reason I wanted a real doctor. And when I asked my boss if she liked hers, she started gushing about how wonderful she is. So I called and made an appointment.

She’s not just a GYN. She’s an OB too.

No, I’m not pregnant. Not yet. But the reality is that two years from now I very well could be. And I wanted to be sure that when that time came, I had a doctor that I already knew and was comfortable with.

Some days I wish the time was now instead of a few years down the road. Last night I headed over to my boss’s house. Ashley was babysitting her children and we planned on a yummy dinner, some good wine and some great conversation. (What actually happened was better than expected. You can read her recap here. Clearly, we like wine.)

I arrived just in time for the 18-month old’s bath. It took all my willpower not to scoop him up and devour his chubby little thighs. I did, however, manage to get a bunch of kisses, a few high fives, the cutest little hug and the joy of hearing him say “More Nana?” which translates into “More Molly?” It doesn’t take much, people. Wear a miniature Beastie Boys shirt and look at me with big blue eyes and I’ll melt into a puddle of goo.

It helps if you’re also 18-months old. Typically men in their 20s wearing a diaper and a Beastie Boys shirt don’t do it for me.

I left with the warm fuzzies and my ovaries jumping around a little bit saying, “When? Now? No? How ’bout now? OK, OK. Now?”

And then I remembered that there’s still a few years to go. And a few visits with the mean, cold duck lips.

Oh come on, you know about the duck lips, don’t you? No? Then I leave you with an exert from one of my favorite passages of the Vagina Monologues. You’re welcome.

“Then there’s those exams. Who thought them up? There’s got to be a better way to do those exams. Why the scary paper dress that scratches your t!ts and crunches when you lie down so you feel like a wad of paper someone threw away. Why the rubber gloves? Why the flashlight all up there like Nancy Drew working against gravity, why the Nazi steel stirrups, the mean cold duck lips they shove inside you? What’s that?

My vagina’s angry about those visits. It gets defended weeks in advance. It won’t go out of the house. Then you get there. Don’t you hate that? “Scoot down. Relax your vagina.” Why? So you can shove mean cold duck lips inside it. I don’t think so.Why can’t they find some nice delicious purple velvet and wrap it around me, lay me down on some feathery cotton spread, put on some nice friendly pink or blue gloves, and rest my feet in some fur covered stirrups? Warm up the duck lips. Work with my vagina.”

– if I pick at a bump before bed, it will be a big honking zit on my chin by morning.

– a man’s electric razor is not meant to be used on a woman’s armpit, even in a rush. (Ow, ow, ow, OW my armpit.)

– not everyone loves shoes as much as I do. I cannot expect all seven of my bridesmaids to want to buy the same shoe. Even if they are purple and fabulous and on sale half off.


(Side note: they come in white too…should I buy them?)

– there’s only one person who can make me go to the gym. Me. So, um, self? Stop slacking this week.

– I should never doubt my reader’s taste in dresses. I’ll be ordering two to try. You’ll  have to wait and see which ones!

– Cadbury chocolate mini eggs are bad for me. I need to stop eating them. Even if Michael’s mom gave me THREE BAGS for Easter.

– seeing boxes waiting on the doorstep from the store I registered at is so exciting. We are now the proud owners of a big bamboo cutting board!

– if my hair has the perfect combination of body and curl before bed, it will look like a clown wig when I wake up.

– if I get a text in the morning that says “there will be no heat at the office today…bundle up!” I SHOULD LISTEN.

Last time I did this you guys really helped me out. So I’m enlisting you again. I have a wedding to go to next month and I’m tired of wearing the same black dress over and over again. (Also, it’s getting too big on me. Woo!) It’s time to bite the bullet and spend a little money so I can look good on the dance floor.

#1 – I love the color and the neckline. I think it’s a flattering cut and the faux wrap is very forgiving. But is the dress to plain?


#2 – An unexpected color and the detailing around the neck is pretty.


#3 – In navy — a change from the basic black. But too dark for April?


#4 – I’m a sucker for blue and the print is fun.


#5 – OK, yes, I know, it’s another little black dress. But this one looks so pretty!


#6 – Although the color is actually called “Sterling”, I think it’s too close to white to wear to a wedding. But what about for my rehearsal dinner?


Ready? Discuss.

All dresses are from Nordstrom. Your credit cards can thank me later.

– Yesterday I went to Jen’s family’s house for Easter. They were just setting up the food as we got there and we hovered around for what seemed like forever until we were finally allowed to eat. Which I did. A lot. I think two times my body weight in dessert alone.

– While we were there, Jen took a picture of us on her cell phone. For some reason I never like the way they come out and am convinced I look like a Muppet. But not just any Muppet. Janice, the blonde-haired, guitar playing “yeah man” chick. You know the one, all mouth and no eyes.


(Love the boots, Jan.)

– When I got home I was in such a food coma that I fell asleep on the couch with the TV on. When I woke up I was a little bummed that I had missed the rest of The Princess Diaries. Even though I’ve seen it before. Like 10 times. I’m 25 years old.

– After dinner I caught the second half of In Her Shoes and spent the rest of the evening alternating between hating Cameron Diaz and her perfectly fit and tanned body, and loving her wardrobe. Then hating her again because those clothes would never fit me.

– This morning I took the dog out in the freezing cold, gave him breakfast and made Michael lunch all before doing anything for myself. I commented as I dug through the fridge for the sandwich meat that I guess this is what mom’s do, right? Put everyone’s needs before their own. Kudos to all the moms out there.

– Next week is our six year anniversary and I suppose the last time we will celebrate that date. Pretty soon we’ll have a wedding anniversary! How cool is that?

– My hands are freezing. Maybe I should stop eating the frozen strawberries and make tea instead. Smart, I am.

It’s that time again, my dears. Time to cringe at the creations that are definitely not foot-worthy.

It’s a platypus mixed with a high-class call girl. Duck-billed, yet classy.


Can we just take a second and look closely at this shoe? Did you look hard? It has lips on it. LIPS, people. Not just lips on the body of the shoe, oh no, but a big, fat three dimensional lip right on the toes. This brings foot fetishes to a whole new level.


I usually require a much bigger laundry basket,  but this would be great for carrying a pair of socks to the basement. Or perhaps I could use it in the gentle cycle to wash my delicates.


Come spring, the caterpillar will shed its cocoon and become a beautiful butterfly.


The cure for an annoying coworker: stuff a cork in it.


This particular shoe deserves a lot of commentary, but it’s hidden so well by all that camo that I can’t seem to see it.


Venetian blind chic. Plus ventilation! You just can’t go wrong.


– Wake up for gym, clutch aching head, call Jen and tell her no gym.

– Wake up for work, clutch aching head, call office and tell them no work.

– Throw on slippers and fiance’s giant down coat and take dog out in the pouring rain. Will him to hurry up because the rain! it is wet!

– Call massage therapist in hopes of massaging away the knots in my neck and back that are causing the headache. Am informed she can’t take me until Monday. Pout.

– Lay on couch. Check email, read blogs, download music, watch TV.

– Top Chef marathon!

– Start to fall asleep, phone rings. It’s work. Debate not picking up.

– Pick it up.

– Panic! Problem must be solved immediately! From the couch! Through email! Frantically try and contact the person I need to speak with who is in California and is neither answering his phone nor responding to his email.

– Bury head under pillow.

– Contemplate throwing on pants and dragging myself to work.

– Look in mirror. Decide against putting on pants.

– With nothing to do but wait, place computer near head in order to hear incoming emails and curse daytime television for not providing me with a good enough distraction.

– Top Chef marathon!

– Email from boss! Hold breath…work problem solved! Turn off computer, text with Jen, sleep.

– Wake up to big dog head in my face. Try to ignore him. Ah! Do not want dog kisses! OK, you win! Take him out to pee.

– Come inside, make cornbread and chili.

– Eat cornbread batter. Not nearly as good as brownie batter.

– Michael’s home! Attempt a hug while Kodiak tries to wedge himself between us.

– Eat dinner, put on best sad face/pouty lip and try to get Michael to rub my back.

– Michael falls asleep on couch.

– Damn.

– Get sucked into a John and Kate Plus Eight marathon. I told myself I would never watch this show. Didn’t see the appeal. Until now.

– Watch John and Kate Plus Eight until I can’t keep my eyes open any more.

– Michael wakes up. Put on now-perfected sad face/pouty lip and convince him to rub my shoulders.

– OW!

– Go upstairs, get in bed, pass out.

One of my favorite wedding tasks so far has been registering. Creating a mega wish list of everything we could possibly need (or want) is like Christmas in March! I knew that somewhere along the way we’d be faced with the question, do we get it even though we won’t use it? You know what I mean — the ice cream maker, the fondue pot, the bread machine, etc. All great in theory, but I’ll tell you exactly where they’ll end up for the majority of our lives.

In the back of a cabinet taking up space.

Which is exactly where the big and cumbersome cheap food processor is (I bought it to make pesto once and haven’t touched it since because it’s so big. And cheap.) along with our toaster. I think we use our toaster three times a year.

I was expecting to come across the usual suspects, but I was completely surprised to find what else was out there. So, I give you the list of the oddest kitchen gadgets that we don’t need but the uniqueness of them makes me think that I have to have them.

The asparagus peeler. I brought this to the attention of my friend Ashley yesterday and she said, “you’re supposed to peel asparagus?” Yeah, I didn’t know that either. I never peel my asparagus. Am I supposed to? Is there a nutritional benefit to removing the so-called peel? Does it make your pee smell any less weird?


The cherry pitter. Call me low-class, but I usually just spit the pits in a bowl. I suppose it would be good if you were making cherry pie (tastes so good, make a grown man cry), but I do that, um, never.


The citrus knife: for when a regular knife just won’t do.


The hot chocolate pot. Ok fine, very nice. Super fancy. But where do the mini-marshmallows go, hmmmm?


The herb mincer. I actually think this is a great idea, but in reality it would become just one more thing I have to wash and it doesn’t look dishwasher friendly so no. Vetoed.


The nutmeg grinder. What is it with people and nutmeg? I swear, every time I turn on the Food Network there’s some chef raving about fresh nutmeg. Let me tell you something, for the amount of times I use nutmeg in my cooking, the pre-ground stuff will do just fine.


And finally, my personal favorite, the mango slicer. I love mangoes and they are a pain to cut so this tool really would serve its purpose. However, it totally looks like a vagina.


I have a crush.

(Michael falls out of chair.)

I have a crush on men with children. Well, not all men with children, but men who are great dads. The guys that you can tell just by looking at the way they hold their son’s hand as they walk down the sidewalk that he would give his life for that little peanut.

One of my coworkers, N, has a three-year-old son and when N talks about him I melt into a puddle of mush. You can hear the happiness in his voice and tell by the way his eyes light up that his son is his world. Every other day there’s a new picture he’s excited to show us or an anecdote he has to share. If you could read our minds, all the females in the room are thinking one big collective “awwww!”

And then there’s my former boss/forever friend, Mike. One of the things I really miss about working with him is hearing daily stories about his kids. And when they used to come by the office, whether it was just a pit stop on the way to play or for a family outing for ice cream, they brought joy to the whole office. Mike writes openly about his children and today I nearly fell out of my chair from all the cuteness. Go look!

Michael and I don’t have an exact time nailed down as to when we’ll start trying for children. We have a general idea, though. And as much as I can’t wait to be a mother, I am so looking forward to seeing him as a father. Aside from the fact that he’s going to be amazing at it, there’s something so sexy about a big, tall man holding a tiny baby in his arms.

But until that time comes, I will continue to crush on the various men I come across in my daily travels. The ones with a baby strapped to their chests koala-style, the ones giving piggy back rides down the street, the ones pushing swings, playing catch, going on hikes and everything in between.

Ask me anything!

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Alltop, all the cool kids (and me)